Bodhi

by A. R. Hadley

  It wasn’t narcissism.

  She wasn’t Warren Beatty.

  It was confirmation. A treaty. And she’d made it with herself. Gavin’s task had taught her a lesson.

  He flipped her around in an instant and kissed his way up the faded letters from the T to the S, stopping to suckle at her nipples and breasts, latching on like a baby, sucking until she tried to squirm from his arms and scream.

  “Let’s try to do this like regular people.” Bending her backward, he kissed her neck. “How are your wrists?” He kissed the veins and massaged the bruises.

  “Fine.” She traced the contours of his face.

  Already hard again, even after the cold shower, the man positioned her ass on the counter and found his place inside her body in one fluid motion.

  “We’ll fuck like regular people,” he whispered with a strain and then hit her womb and held himself there.

  Audrey whimpered between breath-stealing kisses, followed by ones on her face, cheeks, lips, neck, and breasts.

  “Touch yourself,” he said, watching her fingers beginning to play with her clit. “Don’t wait. You need one more before you go home. Before you leave me.”

  “Don’t.” She choked back a sob as he drove into her, kissed her, made love to her…

  …but they weren’t regular people.

  They could never be that. She would go home, and he would stay here. Their worlds would never collide. They would only remain an escape. Each world an escape from the other until one star would give out and die, explode into space, lose its light, become matter, and power someone else’s life.

  She disguised her sorrow inside her release, cried through the orgasm, because then he wouldn’t ask questions, then she wouldn’t have to explain the mess of emotions rising within her now.

  This man couldn’t be a father to her children. He couldn’t help with homework or stop Bry and Rick’s fighting. The dynamic of a family, her fucking family, would change everything they had here. A woman eventually nagged and took too far a lead. A man eventually grew complacent. He would lose respect for her because she would lose respect for him. And then he couldn’t command and own her. Her reality would kill the submission, leaving his dominance in the wake.

  This.

  Was.

  It.

  If she wanted more, she would settle. It was father, husband, and regular lover — or it was him and the loneliness she still suffered every weekend. Lonely for her children when with Gavin … and lonely for Gavin when she was with the boys.

  Motherhood took all her stamina.

  And Gavin replenished it.

  This.

  Was.

  It.

  Who else would beat her and love her and care for the boys? Burn her and cuddle her and chain her to the bed, write slurs on her breasts, make her suck cock after cock after cock, dream of sharing her with two others he loved? Who else would abuse her the way she desired?

  Maybe she should settle for regular: black coffee, minivans, a faithful man who came home and gave a damn.

  She’d tried that already.

  Went to therapy.

  Nothing she imagined truly existed.

  Except this.

  And the fantasies Gavin fulfilled and wanted to fulfill still scared the shit out of her. She had to go home so she could return. Put the collar away — trade it for T-shirts and jeans.

  Moments later she emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a pale-pink ribbed sweater, beige pencil skirt, and knee-high suede boots, pressing glittery peach gloss between her lips.

  “How did you spend the evening?” he asked, soaking in her ensemble from head to toe.

  “How did you spend it?” she deflected.

  “Did you touch yourself?”

  “We can do this all day, Gav, but I have to go.”

  “You’re still wearing my collar, Audrey.” His voice was sliding down the side of a rocky mountain in a thunderstorm. “Answer me.”

  Placing her palm at her throat, fingering the symbol of his protection and ownership, she smiled weakly. “Yes, I touched myself. I came twice. I went through your drawers. I flipped through your photo album.” She nodded toward the shelf. “Looked through some books. I stared in the mirror for hours.”

  “Meditating.”

  “Then I fell asleep, hungry and tired and minus the shame you saw on my face when you left me.”

  “I never leave you.” Stalking forward, he clutched her throat. “Always. Right here,” he said, squeezing. “What did you see in the mirror?”

  “A mother with tiny breasts.”

  Dell had always wanted her to have enhancement surgery (his words, not hers) after Ricki. God forbid he call it a boob job. Her breasts were A cups. She had no jiggle, only little mounds topped with fucking fantastic (she had to admit) nipples.

  “A belly that isn’t flat or smooth,” she continued. “Wrinkles on my thighs and forehead.”

  “You saw more than skin,” he said, tracing the lines near her temples. “You learned something. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She would choke. Right. Now. Or maybe she would cough or cry or bleed. Why did he need every part of her? He had her holes. He owned her pleasure. He could humiliate her in front of dozens. Even hundreds. And still … he wanted her heart. Why? He would only break it.

  “The exercise wasn’t a waste. You spent the time thinking … without responsibility or expectation. Only you, your thoughts, ideas, and dreams. No chores. No mouths to feed. No screens to occupy your space. No distraction, Audrey. That’s meditation. It scared you. And so, you’re lying to me. You focus on the vanity. And you’re not vain. Nor are the things you see as imperfections any cause for concern.

  “This belly held children.” He caressed it for several long seconds. “These breasts fed them.” His thumbs stroked her nipples over her sweater. “These eyes”—he touched the lids—“and this face … reassure boys turning into men — you move mountains.”

  Bottom lip trembling, she pushed his hands away, but he cradled her face, nuzzled her nose.

  “It wasn’t wasted,” he repeated. “I had to keep myself from you last night, so you could have this. I knew it was the only way for you to obey me in this task.” He kissed her open palm. “Go home and then come back to me. Always.” He tugged her hair — one, two, three.

  Audrey was the first to break their gaze. She grabbed her weekender and purse but paused when she reached the door.

  “I love you, Gavin,” she said without looking at him.

  “Audrey?”

  “Yeah.” She glanced over her shoulder and met his eyes.

  “You make me feel like anything is possible. And the man who used to feel like that … he died a long time ago.”

  21

  “Where did you get your name?”

  Audrey blinked several times at Gavin's request. They lay in bed — his king bed in his private room — facing one another. She must’ve fallen asleep, unaware of the time, didn't even know if it was day or night. But it wasn't the first time she'd awoken to him staring into what had been her closed eyes.

  Now they were open.

  “My mom,” she said and blinked, swallowed memories. “Are we having pillow talk, Gavin Sellers?” Audrey's lips went from zero to sixty, racing toward a checkered flag of a smile.

  He dragged a finger from her temple to her chin. “Did she give you this iridescence too, Audrey Bianca Simone?” His quiet question was coupled with a serious face, heat in his gaze, love strung out amongst his vocal chords.

  The memories Audrey had swallowed — her mom's irreplaceable face … her natural beauty … the peanut butter cookies she made from scratch … the way she made people come alive when she read children’s stories, becoming any character easily … the never-ending, squeeze-you-tight hugs — ballooned, not just in her heart, but in her throat, scraping it dry.

  “What is it, baby girl?” He wiped near the corner of her eye, painting her skin with salt and affection.r />
  “My mom ... she named me...” Audrey smiled through the tears. “She loved Audrey Hepburn. I think she probably saw all of her films. Her favorite was My Fair Lady.”

  Gavin’s thumbs were still caressing the creases near her lids when Audrey shifted her eyes. Rubbing her feet in a steady rhythm against his, she attempted in vain to avoid his all-knowing, soul-climbing into-her-soul stare.

  “When did she pass?” he asked as though he were God. He’d witnessed life and death and miracles. Their eyes locked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I know my girl. I see your heart. I can feel your pain here.” He placed a hand on her chest.

  “Bryson was a baby.” Her words came out with a sharp sigh. “Ricki wasn't a thought on the horizon. She never met him.” Audrey didn't know why she needed to state the obvious. It was just one of those things one said to fill the ugly space death occupied.

  “I used to take Michael to classic movies at the theatre here in downtown.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Every summer, they have quite a lineup, one each weekend. Michael learned to appreciate them.”

  “When did you stop? How long has it been?”

  “I lost track.” He pulled the covers off her body. “I want to burn you. Turn over.”

  He stepped away, lit two candles — red and pink, blood and sex, love and survival — and then he came right back and straddled her thighs.

  “A burn for each summer he's been out of my life. We’ll pour the pain out together. Yes?” he said as he dripped the first lost summer onto her supple, waiting skin.

  “Fuck … yes, please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Please, Master,” she said, exhaling with relief, and he did another. “Please burn your girl tonight.” Gasping, she closed her eyes as he dribbled more liquid across her backside, surrendering to the sensational feeling only wax could provide.

  “That was three. I never lose track of time, Audrey. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He set the candles aside, covered his chest in oil, and then he lay his chest against her back, pressing himself against her. Flesh on flesh. Wax on wax. Blood to love. Pain to redemption.

  They would burn together.

  Stick together.

  Become one in their pain and peel away the layers once it dried.

  22

  “Come in, Audrey.”

  Black T-shirt clinging to his body like a second skin, biceps flexing with each subtle but systematic movement, his eyes on the wall in front of him — how had he known she was there? From several feet away, she peeked into the kitchen, watching him perform a task she’d never imagined seeing him orchestrate.

  But he did orchestrate it.

  And well.

  He did this the way he did everything involving the intricate use of his hands.

  “How did you know I was there?” She stepped farther into the kitchen. All the countertops were stainless. It had a sink and an oven, a few shelves, and a refrigerator.

  “The same way I know when to stop adding water. When to stop playing with the flour and yeast.” He placed a piece of the moist dough inside her mouth. "It tells me."

  As he looked into her eyes, she was convinced he saw a child. A girl. Someone who needed a man's attention. And in an instant, he snatched the gift of his undivided attention away and focused on kneading.

  “You disobeyed me.” His biceps flexed with each roll and push.

  The sensation in her mouth — the squishy, salty, yeasty piece — had at first been sweet and pungent. Now, it was only sour, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste.

  “You don't want me here?” She sounded smaller than she'd hoped. True, he hadn't asked for her yet. She must’ve been sleeping when he left the room, but she hadn’t been bound or tied.

  “Don't infer things, Audrey.” He shaped. Twisted. Formed. "We have an agreement. If you’re in my bed, you’re to await my instructions.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Six lumps went into six pans, his strong hands shaping them into good-sized loaves. “We don't bake bread together or break it. We don't hold hands.”

  But he’d spent eons securing her in his arms, staring into her eyes, and he’d been keeping her overnight. They had said they loved each other many times. Why was he being so cold — in the warm room, next to the warm oven and the lukewarm dough?

  Audrey's eyes blurred, fixating on Gavin's fingers, his watch, the oven lights. Then her gaze traveled back to her Master’s deft hands while her mind conjured up the feel and smell and taste of another man: Dell Simone. A man who’d always wanted to hold her hand. Well, until their second son had been born. Until one day, holding hands went out to the curb with the trash pickup. Forgotten like nightly dinners at the dining room table.

  It was a late summer night many years ago… Dell had driven Audrey to a lake where light pollution was scarce. The promise of a meteor shower began to finally fulfill itself after an hour of patiently waiting.

  Several summers had already been spent in the Florida heat after Audrey’s father had moved his family to the Sunshine State when she was a teen. However, this was her first June, July, and August spent with Dell.

  But at eleven o'clock at night, mosquitoes biting, a tepid wind howling over the water at unexpected intervals, she still hadn't quite gotten used to the temperature change. Her place of birth had been Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.

  Sitting next to the cutest guy she knew, at the ripe age of twenty-one, full of dreams and hormones, helped Audrey forget the humidity and the bugs … almost. The streaks of light making a showcase across the black blanket above were what really erased her silent complaints, though.

  “Did you see that one, A?” he asked.

  Both of them sat atop his car hood, feet and shins dangling off the edge as they scanned the canopy of blinking lights. The sky's constellations and the ember of Dell's cigarette were the only other lights for miles. Crickets competed with their sparse conversation. The silence they often shared was comforting the way a sleepover could be with your best friend. Knowing both when to gab and when to lie still. When to wax poetic about nothing.

  “Dang, I missed it.” Her eyes did a quick scan of the heavens. “Oooh. There's one.”

  They watched it burn, leaving a wormlike trail in a split second. And then, as if on instinct, their eyes met.

  Each time Dell took a drag, or whenever he was pensive — and it wasn't brooding; although people mistook it for brooding because he had this "fuck with me, and I’ll fuck with you" face — his eyes crinkled at the corners, extending out toward his temples. He was young, but he crinkled. His smile pronounced the lines. But Dell's smile was often internal. If you knew where to look for it, you could find it.

  Audrey knew where to look.

  They'd been friends now for months. When they'd met, she'd been dating someone. He'd been dating someone. Now, they were free.

  Funny, Audrey wouldn't know the true meaning of that word for at least fourteen more years.

  Free to be with each other, but they were still platonic. Dell hadn't made a move. She knew he liked her, though. But first base didn't even seem to be on his radar, not with her anyway. She could tell he fostered pent-up frustration, and she wondered where he went to placate the need.

  Audrey went under the covers or in the shower. Her hand was getting a workout, and she wanted to be filled with something other than a toy or her own fingers.

  They kept watching the sky, losing track of time. The hands of the clock were the light of another of Dell's cigarettes.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped as his hand made contact with her bare thigh.

  He’d slapped it hard, and his palm remained flush against her skin. And the touch — the slap, the sting, and the five fingers resting way above her knee and close to her apex of burning fucking heat — had her pussy clenching and face flushing.

  “A mosquito,” he replied, a real Dell
smile on his face, lighting his eyes, pronouncing the crinkles.

  “You aren’t just trying to get into my pants?” She wiggled, giving him a subtle invitation to move those fingers higher.

  “No, sweetheart.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke in the other direction as Audrey glanced away. But he squeezed her knee, rousing her attention. “I've been trying to figure out how to go about holding your hand all night.”

  She took the cigarette from him, smiled, and put it between her lips.

  “Is that all it takes?” he asked.

  As she inhaled, then coughed, he patted her back while looking like he was trying not to laugh, then he took the filter and flicked it.

  Audrey stared down at his hand. The one that had resumed its former position: bending backward, wrist out, fingers — hairless and knuckles pale — splayed toward the windshield. He looked relaxed. Unencumbered.

  Audrey touched him.

  Not the way she had when she'd stolen his smoke, although their skin had sparked then too. But she touched him with intention. Answering his silly request with the gentle placement of her hand on his. Fingers intertwining. Skin flush against skin. Clammy palms meeting for the first time.

  Dell kissed Audrey on top of the hood and under the stars.

  And with that first kiss began a union that would last over ten years and result in two beautiful children being born.

  The whole summer of being twenty-one and in love passed with kisses — fevered, passionate, tongue-mingling-with-tongue kisses. June, July, and August passed … and he waited.

  Holding her hand every time they were together — movies, stargazing, the beach — and he waited. Dry humping became a sport. Mutual masturbation sessions the medal. Penetration the goal.

  But he waited...

  And now, she was here.

  In a kitchen with Gavin.

  At the far end of a very different spectrum, and she wanted the code to unlock the secret door.

  Always a locked door to a man’s heart.

  Audrey had wondered that first summer...

  How do I get Dell to fuck me? Take me? Pin me? Bite me? Lead me? Stop treating me like a delicacy?